MY love and I a garden made—
So early in the spring,
When larks begin to sing—
Frail violets a carpet laid,
Of tender blues, for my sweet maid,
When we were gardening.
I did not see the garden grow—
Fate turned me far astray,
Ere summer’s happy ray
The garden kissed, and all the glow
Of fragrant hours I did not know—
My summer’s days were grey.
I did not pick sweet blooms for her,
To make a crown to grace
Her head, and bonny face;
I wandered in a world so bare,
No flower of love perfumed the air,
No blossoms could I trace.
Some lovers sow, some lovers reap,
And others never see
The gardens that might be;
Still, though I might not reap, I keep,
In dreams of her, the mem’ry deep
Of gardens made for me.